‘And?’

‘He was an educational psychologist. He was peripatetic, travelled around different schools across the city.’

‘And?’ Wheeler sighed; it was like drawing teeth. ‘Got a name?’

‘James Gilmore.’

She held out her hand. ‘Gimme those, Robertson, it’ll be bloody quicker for me to read them.’ She scanned the neatly written notes. Two boys had found the body. It was a far from pleasant sight as it had ‘shown considerable signs of beating’. The boys were in shock and the body was waiting for her inside. She thrust the notes back at the sergeant – ‘Fine,’ – turned, ‘Well, Ross, if you’re ready?’

Robertson held up his hand, neat, manicured nails, broad gold wedding band gleaming. ‘There’s something else.’

She paused. ‘Go on.’

‘I knew him.’

Wheeler whistled. ‘Geez, was he a friend?’

Robertson flinched. ‘No, nothing like that. We weren’t close. I didn’t know him well at all; I only met him once, twice maybe, that’s all.’

She waited.

He studied his shoes. ‘We met at one of the schools he visited.’

‘Which one?’

‘Watervale Academy.’

Wheeler recognised the name. The school was in the north of the city, slap-bang in the middle of a run-down shambles of a scheme. She knew that the school’s nickname was Waterfuck and having Academy tagged on was seen by some as a cruel joke thought up by the heid high yins in Glasgow City Council. Watervale catered for some of Glasgow’s most challenging kids.

‘The school for kids with behavioural problems?’ She looked at Robertson.

Robertson nodded. ‘Some have special needs too.’

‘Aye a special need to kick the shit out of anyone who gets in their way,’ muttered Ross.

Wheeler ignored him and addressed Robertson. ‘You there on police business?’ Like a lot of schools in the city, uniformed police sometimes had to visit. But CID was another thing. And it wasn’t even their area. She was curious why Robertson had visited the school. She waited. He hadn’t answered her question. ‘So why were you there?’

Robertson looked at the ground, the rain damping his hair. Still it remained in place. He glanced at Ross, winced, ‘Personal business.’

She saw his discomfort. Felt the tension between the two men deepen. Decided to ignore it – they were meant to be grown-ups and she wasn’t their mammy. Heard her mobile ring. Checked the number. Her sister. Ignored her too.

Wheeler watched as a SOCO passed, his suit rustling as he walked, before turning back to Robertson. ‘And the two boys who found him, how’re they doing?’

‘They’re both very upset, as you can imagine.’

‘I’ll bet. I hope they’re not still here?’

‘Course not. I had them taken to the station.’

‘Good. So, what do we know about them?’

Robertson checked his notes. ‘Alec Munroe and Rab Wilson, both nineteen and both ex-Watervale Academy.’

‘So they knew the victim?’

‘Only that he visited the school. They’d left before he started there. But they knew his name – they still hang out with kids from the school.’

‘At their age?’

He nodded. ‘Said all their pals still went there. They came to the house on the off chance it was empty.’

‘All the way across the city? That doesn’t seem right.’

‘On the bus.’

‘On the bus,’ she repeated, ‘because?’

He glanced at his notes. ‘Parents’ night at school – they thought all the staff would be there. They were going to rob the place.’

She whistled. ‘Geez, they broke in and found a body – bad luck there boys.’

‘Technically they didn’t break in,’ he corrected her, ‘the door was already open.’

She looked at Robertson, then at the house, trying to imagine the scene. ‘Uh huh. And how’d you find out about the intended robbery?’

Robertson beamed. ‘They told me.’

‘Christ,’ Ross spluttered, ‘they’re no Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, are they?’

Robertson kept his voice low. ‘Humour’s hardly appropriate, given the grave circumstances.’ He busied himself rereading his notes.

‘Fuckin’ amateurs! On the bus!’ Ross was still sniggering.

She glanced at Ross, took in the fitted jacket, purposely tight over a taught six-pack. His body was gym-toned, hers ex-army-honed. He had long legs, broad shoulders. Dark hair, pale blue eyes, long lashes. She knew that if he was chocolate he’d eat himself. He was also loud and routinely inappropriate. That said, she still liked him. She looked at Robertson, noting how a faint smir of rain seemed to hover over his suit, while her trousers were already soaked.

‘So our boys aren’t the brightest . . . anything else I should know?’

He returned her smile, patted his notes, his ring catching the light from the police vehicles and reflecting it. ‘I think that’s a pretty accurate assessment of the situation.’ His mobile rang. ‘Excuse me.’ He passed his notes to Wheeler before he moved off, but they could hear him hissing into the phone, ‘Yes, I’m still on the job; I’ll probably be here all night . . . because it’s important work.’ A pause while he listened. ‘Oh for pity’s sake Margaret, I’ll be home whenever I can; go on up to bed and for goodness’ sake stop fretting.’ He clicked off the phone and turned back to them.

Wheeler and Ross studied the notes intently, Ross smirking.

Robertson blushed, aware that they had overheard him. ‘I’ll be out here if you need me.’

Wheeler stepped forward. ‘If you need to get home, go now. There are enough of us on duty.’

‘But DCI Stewart said that—’

Ross cut him off. ‘Stewart’s got two days off. I think between us, we can manage till he gets back. Even without you being here.’

Robertson shook his head and walked back towards his car.

She watched him leave then turned to Ross. ‘Is there a wee problem between you two lovebirds?’

He shrugged. ‘Problem’s with him.’

‘How’s that?’

‘PB.’

‘Sorry?’

‘He’s Plymouth Brethren. No drinking, whoring or swearing.’

‘Christ, really? No swearing?’

‘’Fraid so. Fuckin nightmare.’

She could imagine Robertson’s welcome at the station. ‘Just another bloody division in the team,’ she muttered.

He straightened to his full six foot three, looked hurt. ‘The rest of us are okay.’

‘You think?’

He shrugged.

‘Well then, let’s refocus: the two boys walked in through the back door intent on robbing the place, instead they found the body and, rather than scarper, they did the concerned citizen bit and called it in?’

‘Sounds about right,’ said Ross.

‘Let’s go see it then.’ She walked ahead of him, careful of her steps, keeping to the tread plates, conscious that there may be evidence still to be collected, some tiny piece that may help them find the killer.

She was first through the door. Boots and muddy wellingtons were piled inside and an old wooden coat stand held a good-quality Berghaus outdoor jacket. A camera tripod was propped against the wall. Four oak doors led off from the hall, all open. Through the nearest she could see the body laid out on a tarpaulin and kneeling beside it a stout man with a goatee beard. Professor Callum Fraser.

She stood in the doorway. ‘Smells like rancid meat in here.’

Fraser turned from the body, looked her up and down and grinned, ‘DI Wheeler, how very lovely to see you but I thought DCI Stewart might have shown a face.’

‘Stewart’s on leave.’ Ross tried not to look at the corpse. Held his breath, turned red in the face.

‘Ah. Lucky man being on leave; wish I were off doing something nice.’

Her mobile rang; she checked the number before answering and instinctively turned away from the body as she spoke briefly to the caller.

‘Stewart was on two days’ leave,’ Wheeler corrected Ross as she clicked off the phone. ‘He’s on his way into the station. Says he’ll meet us there.’ She turned to face the body.

‘Watch your feet please, detectives, there’s still a lot of evidence to be collected.’